The wet, melting road whines under my car tires on my way home. Resenting the barbarous lines painted to keep me centered, I feel confined and watched. Moving involuntarily on the sensate asphalt; anger and anxiety are a dervishly, wild compass. Around me in silence, the last of autumn fights to regain ground in what now seems like a futile attempt, as my hands shake with every curve.
Seeing our house visible in the distance, alone against the small hills it restrains, smoke pouring out of its chimneys like spires, is familiar, but I feel nothing. As if an instinct has kicked in, like shock, I’ve been removed from my life. I can see everything in minute detail. It’s begun again.
Trixie, our 1971, VW camper is missing from the drive when I pull up. Knowing Remy is gone adds to the isolation that’s claimed me. But Danielle is in the kitchen making a sandwich when I walk in.
“Hey!” she calls out over peanut butter, before reading my body language, “What’s wrong, Stephanie?”
I have her full attention, as I’m pulled down by an invisible anchor, into a kitchen chair. My head full, dread washes over me like an irretractable hood. “Three of the other survivors are dead,” I manage. Being a survivor of the park herself, Danielle instantly understands. But oddly, there’s no reaction. That’s interesting. Left as wild game for privileged madmen on the same Island, Remy and I had been interned last year; Danielle had survived the longest, almost a year, and, as she stands before me, that is not a surprise. She’s tough, and let’s not forget– gorgeous. “Arona is dead. So are Leeds and Pitt.” I state, knowing she was the leader of the group of abducted women that Arona belonged to, I know they knew one another. She’s silent for a moment, but still no reaction.
Her golden eyes reflecting the under-counter halogens like a cat, she reluctantly admits, “We know.”
We know? I recoil. “What do you mean, we know?”
“Horace told Remy two days ago.”
He what?
“We thought it would be best not to say anything until we had more details.”
We?
“We thought it was best for you.”
We? I stand up, knocking my chair to the floor unapologetically. “Is that what you thought?”
Danielle, always a pool of mystery, whispers, “We need to be very careful.”
“I’ll say.” Picking up the chair, I regard this woman without any further reply, and head upstairs before I say something I know I’ll regret. Walking into my office, the last golden rays of light flash over the landscape with warm, honey light– that I renounce. Anxiety spins me around, in a trance, and I storm across the landing into Remy’s vacant office running my finger across the far corner of his desk. Just the spirit of his presence calms me, but I’m angry.
Sitting down in his chair, I can think of many reasons as to why he chose not to tell me about the survivors. The most obvious is protection, and I love him deeply for that. But why is he confiding in another woman? Life-threatening danger, is incomparable to the wound that has begun to fester inside me. Closing my eyes, I spin slowly around in his chair, hoping a new perspective will take hold. Three turns later, I have no sense of direction except the shadows of light through my closed eyelids.
A moment later Remy’s wallboard, is in front of me; a flow chart to his subconscious, a collection of his present and immediate thoughts and concerns. There is so much beauty laid before me, undeniable layers of wonder.
From the top left corner to the center of the board, a series of three drawings on rough, handmade paper are tacked with push pins, one after another. The paper looks old and the rich texture contrasts the graceful lines of his India ink. The first drawing, an outline of a bird with its wings tucked like a dove, holds a string gently in its beak. The delicate impression of the string flows softly through to the next paper, where it transforms into the face of a woman before trailing off to a third page. The string then winds through a series of loops before landing in the mouth of another bird like a reminder not to forget something. They hold the woman in balance.
Below this, is a post-it with a list of names for future coffee blends scrolled out in Remy’s unintelligible handwriting; next to that is a Volkswagen van calendar. To the right of the calendar are photos of waves, his favorite surf breaks: beautiful Teahupo′o, Jaws, Pipeline, the unbelievable Nazare´ and the entrance to Hell itself, Ship Stern. On the bottom right side of the board is an updated article about the explosion in Arizona.
Fatal Highway Tanker Explosion
Terrorism or Accident? The nuclear waste tanker explosion in Phoenix is still under investigation. Federal response teams note that the intensity of the fire has reached temperatures high enough to melt the tank casing and the ground beneath it as well as several rows of cars that surrounded the tanker at the time of the explosion. Sources confirm that due to this unprecedented heat, the overpass collapsed killing over 3800 people instantly, and an additional 2400 people have been taken to St. Joseph’s Medical Hospital, 1600 of whom are listed in critical condition, while several thousand people are being treated for severe radiation exposure. Buildings and infrastructure in the immediate vicinity are collapsing due to the extreme temperature of the fire that is burning out of control with zero containment.
Although news sources have confirmed the tanker was transporting Class 7 materials, it has not been disclosed which type of radioactive material was involved or what effects the radioactive materials may have on the local community. The F.B.I. has not implied that the explosion was a terrorist act but their response on the scene alludes to the possibility. The damages to the environment and local community are still unclear, but teams of DOE emergency responders are monitoring a five-mile radius from the blast. The Governor of Arizona has declared a National State of Emergency, while Habistram Industries, the manufacturer of the tanker and sole licensed federal contractor for transporting and storing nuclear and atomic waste in the U.S., has not been unavailable for comment.
Clare Rubane, News Network
My skin crawls, knowing the park where we were interned last year was owned by Habistram, and John Jameson, the C.E.O., was one of the hunters on the train. I smirk, remembering I shot the smug bastard in the leg.
Scanning the horrific image of melted cars and the twisted remains of the overpass, my stomach tightens. The headlines of residents being added to the hospitalization list or death toll, suffering from various degrees of radiation poisoning, are now the world’s newest preoccupation.
The column of paper stacked to the right side of the wallboard that caught my eye earlier is covered with a blank page. There are eight pages underneath, each titled with a name. I know them all, they are the names of the hunters from the train at the park. I looked into each one of their faces with a shotgun in one hand, a pistol in the other, and a piece of dynamite in my mouth. Eight out of the original twenty-four psychopaths that were members of this absurd club are listed. Remy has outlined each of them, it reads like a biography from a bizarre Webflix show.
H.S. is first, and I know more about him than I care to. Moving on to the next, John Jameson, it only reads- At large, in Remy’s scribble. Richard Bannock, Danielle’s old boss, has a line drawn through his name, the word Dead next to it. The same goes for Friedland Becket and Warren Bazel. Dead. Killed on the train.
Dryson Pierce – I don’t recognize. The obituary states he was the Director of the Department of Energy for two Presidents and a steadfast proponent of clean coal initiatives… yada yada … He died from liver complications. I do remember the face of the man whose photo is paper clipped to Pierce’s page, though; he was the spitting image of a young Humphrey Bogart. This young man’s body was transported home with us from the park on Horace’s plane. In the margins, Remy wrote: Abducted by Pierce. DEAD.
Garrison Levitt the President of The World Fucking Bank is next on the list; British born, attended all the schools someone like that would attend. A member of high society, he lives in Del Mar California with his fifth wife in a seaside mansion, and . . . oh, he’s gone missing. What a shame.
The last name, Johnathan Handel, has an unusual mark next to it. CEO of Plymouth Securities in Connecticut died in his sleep. In Remy’s handwriting, I see the words, blue-blood banker, father to abductee Haven- real name (Marcus) also dead. Marcus’ name is ominously circled with red marker. I know Remy was fond of Marcus. As I turn to leave a small piece of paper catches my eye, no more than two inches square that’s been ripped out of a magazine.
All Cannabis and Hemp Interstate Transportation will be Regulated by the Federal Government.
There’s no article, just a header with no pictures. Spinning the chair around, I leave the room with my thoughts scrambled.